Finding Sophie (7 page)

“I
'm a bit early. I couldn't wait to see you again,” Marianne says, smiling broadly.

“Me, too.” We shake hands rather formally, and that makes us laugh, breaking the ice. “I hope you didn't get into too much trouble with Sister.”

“She went on a bit about decorum, and setting an example. She's actually quite decent under all that starch. Sophie, I cannot get over how tall you are. What happened to you?”

“I grew. I was fourteen on April 27.”

“I was eighteen on May 3. Let's have some tea. There's a Lyon's restaurant round the corner. It's self-serve. Would you like a sticky bun? I'm always starved. The food at the nursing residence is even worse than the patients get.”

Marianne insists on paying.

“Before I forget, Aunt Em said please come for tea or supper when you're free. She's longing to meet you.”

“Aunt Em?” Marianne looks puzzled. “Who is Aunt Em?”

“My guardian, alias Miss Margaret Simmonds.”

“In that case, of course, I'd love to. Is she the lady who fetched you from Liverpool Street Station – the one in the gray coat?”

“That's her. Still wearing that coat.”

“She looked very kind. I watched her face when she spoke to you, and the way she held your hand when you left.”

“She
is
kind. She and my mother were pen friends for years before the war, and when things got difficult, she wrote and asked Aunt Em to take care of me. The day we left, Mother said I was going on holiday to England.”

The men at the table beside ours are smoking. The gray-blue haze swirls behind Marianne's head. I remember the first time I saw her….

Mama says, “Today is a special day, Zoffie. It's the day you are going on holiday to England. Look, you have a new dress to wear, and so has Käthe. Two pretty girls. There is something in the pocket for you.”

“Is the orange for me?”

“Yes, to eat on the journey. Stop jumping up and down. You don't want to be late, do you? Let me brush your hair.”

“Are you coming on holiday to England too, Mama?”

“No, how could I? Who would look after Papa? You are such a big girl, you can manage on your own. …”

“Is that the holiday train, Mama? It's so big. Why are we waiting? I want to go through the gate.”

Mama is talking to a woman holding a list. She is blocking our way.

“Please check again. Her name is Zoffie Mandel. She was promised a place.”

“Mama, they are closing the little doors on the train. The guard is blowing the whistle. The train will leave without me!”

“No. It won't. Come quickly.” Mama pushes me onto the platform. So many children waving. All going away like me. Mama pulls me along. I hold Käthe away from the soldiers and the fierce dogs.

“Run, Zoffie. See, the door is still open. Good girl. Stay with the children.” She lifts me up into the compartment.

“Mama?”

Marianne says, “Your mother kissed your hand before she left and asked me to take care of you. You wore a blue dress.”

“With white stripes. Mother sewed it for me.”

“I thought so. You wore it over a little white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. By the time we got to England, it was gray. Do you remember how we all stood in a line on the platform at Liverpool Street Station? I was trying to scrub your face clean because photographers were taking pictures of us. We were that day's news: the first refugee children to arrive in England on a
Kindertransport
out of Nazi Germany. I wanted us to make a good impression,” Marianne says.

“Later, when we were evacuated from Paddington Station, I was sure you'd be on the train, taking care of me like you did
before,” I say. “For a long time, in the beginning, I waited for you to come and live with Aunt Em and me.”

Marianne bites her thumbnail, then puts her hand back in her lap as if someone had slapped it down. “After you left, Sophie, I really missed you. I waited and waited for my name to be called. Finally, when I was the only girl left in the waiting room, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones agreed to take me.”

“Was she kind to you, Marianne?”

“I'll be charitable and say she did her best. Aunt Vera had hoped for an older girl, someone the same age you are now, Sophie, whom she could train as a maid. She hadn't the least idea of how homesick I was, or what we'd been through in Germany.

“It wasn't all bad, of course. I wasn't hungry or beaten, and I made a wonderful friend. It was Bridget who got me through those first awful weeks. She helped me make up job applications to find employment for my parents. Imagine two eleven-year-olds going door-to-door with our little bits of paper, soliciting work.”

“What happened?”

“My mother did get a job offer. My father was trapped in Czechoslovakia when Hitler marched in, so there wasn't much hope of him getting out.

“I waited for Mutti's letter, which never arrived, to say when she was coming. We missed each other by hours. She actually arrived in London the day after I was evacuated to Wales. The school was closed, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones had shut the house and moved away, so there was no forwarding address for me. I'd just been thrown out of my third billet when she found me, and
by Christmas we were living together. That reminds me, Sophie – write down your address; I don't want to lose you again.”

I scribble my address for her. Marianne gasps, “I can't believe it. When I lived with Mrs. Abercrombie Jones, I was less than half an hour's walk away from you. We lived in St. John's Wood, on Circus Road. Destiny meant us to meet again.”

“Absolutely,” I say. “Tell me about Bridget – what happened to her?”

“Bridget's parents sent her to Canada at the beginning of the war, to live with an uncle in Montreal. She's sailing home as soon as she can get a berth on a ship. She's done her probationary year of nursing in Canada. Her father, Dr. O'Malley, is pulling strings like mad so she gets accepted at the Middlesex. Bridget and I really want to finish our training together.”

“Marianne, does Dr. O'Malley look anything like this?”

I do a quick sketch on the back of the paper Marianne gives me, roughing in the doctor's shaggy eyebrows and the lines under his eyes.

“Sophie, are you clairvoyant or something? That's him.”

“Your Dr. O'Malley came to our house last week because our regular doctor is on holiday.”

“It's amazing. Not just that you know him, but the way you draw.”

I try to shrug modestly. “Marianne, where is your mother?”

“She's still working for Mrs. Davy. Now that the war's over, we're hoping to hear news about my father. Waiting's awful, isn't it?”

“Yes. Do you have any other relatives over there?”

Normally I wouldn't ask anything so personal, but this isn't an ordinary conversation. Or an ordinary meeting.

“My Aunt Grethe is safe in Holland. She and Uncle Frank were in Westerbork Concentration Camp. He died there. She's back at home in Amsterdam now. My cousin Ruth, her daughter, lives in Palestine. She's two years older than me. She sailed there on a rickety old boat just before the Nazis overran Holland in 1940. Ruth lives on a kibbutz called Degania. She and her group are making orchards out of the desert.”

“Kibb. … I've never heard that word before.”

“A kibbutz is a farm that belongs to all the people who live and work there. Uncle Frank was always against her going. He thought the work would be too hard for her. He did relent at the last moment, so Ruth was able to leave with his blessing.” Marianne stirs her tea.

I remember the pictures of the camps I've seen. Somehow I can't imagine my father being in such a place.
They'll be all right. After all, my mother isn't Jewish.

Marianne looks up at me. “My grandparents, my mother's father and mother, were deported to Poland. Early on, I think in 1941. Mutti had a card from a neighbor in Düsseldorf. They'd arranged that before she left for England, in case anything happened to her parents. The card arrived from Switzerland; all it said was
YOUR PARENTS HAVE RELOCATED TO LODZ.
Jews from all over Germany were sent there. When the Russians liberated the camp in January, only a few hundred people were still alive.”

“My father's Jewish and my mother's Aryan. I never knew my mother's parents. I met my grandfather, my father's father, only once. He said he was being sent to Poland too.”

“I'm sure you'll have some news soon, Sophie. It's probably a great help to have one parent who's not Jewish, a protection.”

How did the conversation turn so serious?
I change the subject.

“What made you decide to be a nurse, Marianne? Is it fun living in the nurses' residence?”

“I always wanted to be a nurse. We do have fun, but the girls who join because they think uniforms are glamorous and they'll find a rich doctor to marry don't last long. Well, you know how hard the work is, Sophie. I don't know what's worse: never having enough hot water for a bath, or having to eat last night's supper when we come off night duty!

“Now, on that cheerful note, I'd better go or I'll be late for supper. See you on the ward on Saturday.”

We hug each other good-bye.

A
unt Em is waiting for me, wanting to hear all about Marianne. When I come to the part about Dr. O'Malley, she says, “What an extraordinary week. Dr. O'Malley suggested I get out of London for a few days. I've decided to go. It's the first holiday weekend since the war. It'll be quite an adventure. I might meet a mysterious person from the past too!”

“Aunt Em, you know everyone's always buried behind the newspaper. People only talk in air-raid shelters and thank goodness we don't need those anymore. Where will you go?”

“I thought I'd accept Uncle Gerald's invitation. It will give me the opportunity to settle dull business matters.” She doesn't look at me.

Perhaps Aunt Em wants to discuss my adoption? After all, I have been sort of stranded with her for seven years.

“I'll take the 7:30 train on Friday morning. My friend Louisa lives fairly near, so I'll probably spend Saturday with her. That
will ease the ‘burden’ for Winifred. Uncle Gerald will drive me back on Sunday night.”

“Aunt Em, you surely won't leave a poor defenseless fourteen-year-old alone for the whole weekend? May Mandy come over, and would it be all right if she came early, to settle in before you leave?”

“I was going to ask Mrs. Gibson if you could go there.”

“Please, Aunt Em, do let us stay here. We're not children anymore.”

“I don't see why not. I'll walk over to Mrs. Gibson's now. It's a lovely evening. If Mandy's going to sleep in the spare room tomorrow, there's work to be done. You'll need to push all those Red Cross boxes I've been storing to the far wall. They'll have to be labeled too. The bed's made up, but the room should be aired and dusted.”

I fling my arms around Aunt Em's neck. “Lovely, lovely Aunt Em.”

“I recognize ‘cupboard love,’ Sophie Mandel. You don't fool me. Up you go then – get started.”

Opening, labeling, and securing the boxes takes longer than I expect. There is one that must have got mixed in with the others by mistake. It is marked
SOPHIE.
I open it, thinking it might be outgrown clothes. Usually Aunt Em cuts them up for other things, or gives them to needy families. But the box only holds letters and drawings and a folder with my early report cards. I put it in my room to sort later.

Aunt Em comes in carrying a little vase of wildflowers from the garden. “Mrs. Gibson said Mandy could visit. So that's taken care of.” She hands me a one pound note.

“That's an awful lot, Aunt Em. What's it for?”

“Call it a combination of emergency and fun money. I wouldn't want you to be destitute, without a penny in your pocket.”

“Thank you very much, Aunt Em.”

“Go to bed, dear. You've been having too many late nights. I'm surprised you haven't fallen asleep in class.”

“It is a strain to keep awake sometimes, I admit.”

Aunt Em laughs and kisses me good night. “I
am
pleased you found your friend again, Sophie.”

On Thursday, when we go to pick up Mandy's things, Mrs. Gibson gives us homemade scones and Mandy's egg and bacon ration to take home for breakfast next day. Then we hear lecture number one about being responsible, and does Mandy have enough money, etc.

“Mother,” Mandy says, “you'll see us Saturday, remember? I'm coming home right after my hospital shift to have tea with you before we go to the pictures. Sophie will pick me up when she's finished at nine o'clock so you can check us both over before we cycle home.” She raises her left eyebrow at me.

Mandy loves the spare room. “Is this the wall next to your bed?”

“I think so.”

We experiment for a while sending Morse code messages to each other. Over supper, we get lecture number two from Aunt Em about not coming in too late, and locking up and putting our bikes away, and then we have to write down a list of emergency numbers. We nod yes to everything, and stay up half the night gossiping.

On Friday morning, the taxi arrives for Aunt Em at 6:30. We wave her off and collapse in the kitchen.

“Alone at last,” I say.

“Extra half hour in bed, or breakfast?” Mandy asks, yawning.

“I'll make us dried egg omelette, and we'll save the real eggs for tomorrow. You make the tea. The secret of making dried eggs slightly less revolting, Mandy, is to stir in the water very slowly so all the powder is dissolved. Not a lump in sight,” I say, and pour the mixture into the hot pan. I grate a bit of cheese on top.

“Delicious,” Mandy says, with her mouth full. “A bit like pancakes. Actually, I think keeping house is easy. I can't think why mothers make such a fuss about it.”

It is fun coming home together to our “own” house. We have tea in the garden, and Mandy admits that Simon hopes to see her at the Youth Club tonight.

“He's so nice, Sophie. Let's go. It's mixed table tennis on Friday nights. Can I borrow your blue blouse?”

“Yes, and I want to borrow your black leather belt,” I say.

“Done.”

We get to the semifinals. Simon and Nigel are our partners and invite us to go to Fred's Fish Bar for chips. Later they walk us home.

“Night, Sophie. Don't get up in the morning. No point in us both losing our beauty sleep. See you after work tomorrow.”

“Sleep well, Mandy.”

I double-check the front door and the windows.

When I come down at nine next morning, there are two letters lying on the front mat. A bill for Aunt Em and a letter addressed to me c/o Miss Simmonds.

My letter is from someplace in Germany – not from Berlin, where my parents live. The return address on the back is marked
U.S. ARMY HOSPITAL, MUNICH, GERMANY
.

My mouth goes dry. This must be the letter I've been half expecting since the end of the war.

I can hear Mandy's voice in my head: “Why don't you open it, idiot?”

I can't. The minute I touch the envelope, I feel exactly the way I did on
V-E
night when I saw Marianne again.

Who else is going to appear from the past? Isn't that what Aunt Em said?

I sense the letter staring at me, urging me to open it.

The phone rings. It's Aunt Em.

“Oh, yes, everything's fine. No, there's nothing wrong. My
voice doesn't sound funny. It must be a bad connection. … Tuesday … you're staying over for Whit Monday?”

I'm repeating everything Aunt Em says. She must wonder what's the matter with me.

“Honestly, Aunt Em, I don't mind a bit. We're having fun. See you Tuesday, then.”

An envelope is a piece of paper, that's all.
I draw two eyes and a smiling mouth on the back. I slit open the envelope and pull out a thin sheet of writing paper. It's dated May 21, 1945.

By the time I get to the end, I can't remember what I've read. My heart is pounding so hard, I can hear it thumping away.
Papa wants me back!

I read the letter again slowly. Mama, Mama is dead.

It's my fault. I didn't wish hard enough for her to be safe.